Well, Deflower Me & Call Me in 3 Days, It's... DEAR APRON Time!

You know why you're here by now: to read moronic letters to Dear Abby and see them get that acrid, slightly cruel, distinctly sexy Dear Apron treatment.

Let's kick it old school, bitches.

DEAR APRON:

Please don't think I'm stupid for asking this, but I need some help. The practice of letter-writing appears to be a dying form because of e-mail and texting -- which I'm good at. But when I receive a nice gift, I know the proper way to acknowledge it is to write a thank-you letter.

Can you please tell me how to do one that doesn't come across as awkward? Christmas is coming and this is hard for me. When I try to get my thoughts down on paper, I am ... STUCK!

DEAR STUPID:

Well, it's difficult for me to offer suggestions for how to say "thank you" for, as yet, unknown gifts. I mean, how do you know you're even going to get anything?

Here's a little secret: there is no way to write a thank-you letter that doesn't come across as awkward. Not even Dear Abby, with her legendary skill and tact can pen a thank-you note that doesn't sound like it was pulled out of a can. Rather, though, then try to extort money from you like she does, ("My booklet "How to Write Letters for All Occasions" offers samples that can be adapted and personalized. It can be ordered by sending your name and mailing address, plus a check or money order for $6...") I'm going to give you a sample of a letter you can use. Just change a few adjectives to suit whatever gift you've received, and you'll be on your way.

"Dear Grammaw,

Thank you eversomuch for "The Accommodator" you bought me for Victoria Day (CAN). It just arrived in its inconspicuous plain, brown wrapping today. I was so pleased when I opened it, but even more pleased once I used it.

The product has lived up to all its claims on the website "Crazy Ass Sex Toys." "The Accommodator" is indeed the best rubber strap-on dildo I have ever worn on my chin. It has revolutionized the way I think about both sex and Pinocchio.

The three Mickey Mouse bum-plugs were also very much appreciated.

It was great to bump into you at the shooting range last Thursday.

Love,

Your Little Apron Boy"

See? That was a brilliantly-composed thank-you note, but it was still a little awkward.

DEAR APRON:

When my husband and I married two years ago, we both wanted children. I am having second thoughts now. We recently discovered that there's a genetic disorder on one side of the family, and it scares me to think we may not have a healthy child.

To be perfectly honest, even if we could have a healthy child, I am also not sure I want to go through the challenge of parenting a teenager. How should I approach my dear husband about my change of heart? -- SECOND-GUESSING IN N.Y.

DEAR SECOND-GUESSING:

You know, you almost caught me feeling sorry for you, until the second paragraph. You should have quit while you were ahead. People-- for Christ's sake-- keep it short. You get into less trouble that way. Any lawyer will tell you that while prepping you to take the stand in a murder trial.

Or so I hear.

So, the real issue here is that you're not concerned that you're going to have a child with webbed eyelids or fingernails for nipples-- you just don't want to have to deal with parenting a sweaty, pimply, horny teenager-- either some sluttly little tramp who gets pregnant at thirteen and wears more mascara than Marilyn Manson or a randy little bastard who fantasizes about being a pro-football player, humps his pillow and ejaculates into old gym socks.

I knew from the start this letter didn't have anything to do with deformed genes. I mean, in this day and age, it's almost a certainty that your kid's going to be Aspergian anyway.

While I completely understand and identify with your reticence on the subject of having potentially beshmoigied kids, you're still a mean, selfish little bitch. You know what you need? The Accommodator.

DEAR APRON:

I'm a 14-year-old boy. I went to a party last weekend and some people pressured me to do some uncomfortable stuff. Can you advise me -- and other teens -- how to handle peer pressure? -- ASHAMED IN ILLINOIS

DEAR MOM-IMPERSONATING-HER-14-YEAR-OLD-SON:

Hey-- don't fucking bullshit me, lady, I know what the fuck is going on here. Your kid goes to a party and tells you his buds tried to stick some Mary Jane up his ass, and you think THIS is the answer? Writing a phoney-baloney piece of shit letter into Dear Abby so she can offer some lameass, Reagan-era "Just Say No" scat on that cat?

Sorry, honey, but no fourteen-year-old male alive and operating in this century uses the phrase, "Can you advise me--and other teens-- how to handle peer pressure." Furthermore, there isn't a fourteen-year-old boy in America who knows who Dear Abby is, and, if he did know who she was, he wouldn't be caught dead writing her a letter. Nope. Sorry.

If you want Dear Abby (or Dear Apron, for that matter) to parent your delinquent children, then drop them off on our doorstep in a Moses basket, ring the bell and run away-- but don't pull on my pud and write letters pretending to be acne-ridden masturbators when really you're just tired Midwestern haus-fraus with saddle-bag eyes and pocket-book asses who want to look for an easy way out of dealing with teenage drama.

DEAR APRON:

I am a 38-year-old business woman. I was single for many years until I met and fell in love with "Rory," who had been a long-time client. We were married a year ago.

Rory and I love each other, but we have a problem -- or, should I say, I have one. Rory has a penile implant and an insatiable sex drive. I can't keep up with him. He demands sex every night and sometimes a couple of times during the week at lunchtime.

I don't know what to do because above all I don't want to hurt my husband's feelings. Have you any advice for me? -- TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

DEAR TOO MUCH:

Well, I guess you and Rory won't be needing that Accommodator I bought you for Christmas this year. I hope Crazy Ass Sex Toys accepts returns.